Beyond Repair
by Her Voice
Summary: Pulled from the Arena, Peeta has to deal with what being a Victor really means. The events of after the 74th Hunger Games, seen from Peeta's point of view. Deals with overcoming disability and fighting to stay who you are while accepting the changes as they come.
1. Chapter 1

Alright, another Tumblr based story. I saw some one post about how devastating it must have been for Peeta to wake up without a leg. And as someone who has gone through a life altering tragedy, I understand what it is like to wake up and go from being normal to having a disability. So I really felt compelled to write this. I'm not really sure where I will end it, or if it will just be a series of one shot, but I just had to focus on Peeta's feelings. Here it is!

Beyond Repair

By: Her Voice

I must have swallowed a berry.

That's the only coherent thought I can produce, swimming in a haze of disjointed thoughts. I feel detached from myself, but not in the classic way that you would think. I don't feel like I'm standing outside my body, watching everything happen around me. Instead, I feel like I'm stuck in my own body, unable to function as I should. I can't speak, but I know that I have things I want to say. I can't reach out and touch those around me. I want to pull the person in who keeps brushing my hair back. I don't know who she is, but the bright ruby hair means a Capitolite. And I'm sure she has the answers I need.

But I can't do anything.

My eyes refuse to open, darkness surrounding me. They feel heavy, and I can only assume that it is because of the berries. I've lost everything but my sense of hearing, and even then, everything sounds disconnected. Nothing makes sense.

I can hear Katniss's voice, defiantly counting down the final moment, replaying over and over in my mind. I knew I was prepared for it, that I was ready to end it here. Because I couldn't kill her. I was ready to devour them, to die just to make sure that she lived. I had spent the entire Game doing just that, pulling as many heart strings as I could to get her every benefit, every chance. She had to win, because I couldn't go home to a place where she wasn't.

I didn't care that she didn't acknowledge my existence. I didn't even care that she probably didn't even know my name up until it was pulled out of the bowl.

I could not look at her family, knowing that I was the reason she was dead. Returning to Twelve without her was not an option.

After fighting to stay alive as hard as we had, it almost seemed bittersweet to end it like this.

But it was fitting. Because even if she didn't eat the nightlock and I did, she would at least still be alive. And maybe she would be able to forgive herself and move one, knowing that I did it to myself.

I think I can hear screaming, and I'm almost certain that it is Katniss's voice cutting through everything else. But whoever it is, her words are incoherent. I can't make out what she's saying, only that she sounds far off and sad. There is desperation in her voice. I know that I can comfort her, but I'm stuck.

Instead of reaching out to her, I fight to stay awake.

Slipping into warmth of the blackness is much easier. And I don't think I had a choice either way.

* * *

Death is supposed to be a release from pain, right? If I'm dead, I shouldn't be feeling a thing. But instead, I feel like the pain has been intensified.

I expected a lightness to come with death. I expected peace. But I'm getting the opposite.

There isn't a part of my body that doesn't hurt, if I'm being honest. My throat feels raw, like nails coated in sandpaper. I don't think I can produce any saliva to help it. My whole chest aches with my rib cage ripped apart and reconnected, each nerve ending exposed. I feel like I've been electrocuted a few times. The disconnect is still there, but this time, it's like I'm standing beside myself, looking out at people as they watch.

The come in and out, often floating across the room or rolling on the floor. Each face made little sense. Everything blended into the abstract, colors blending in ways that should have created blackness but didn't.

I don't know how long has passed, but I am almost certain that Katniss is dead. My last memory is eating the berries. If I am alive, she must be dead.

I tried to scream, but my voice is raw and soundless. I fight against the restraints around my wrists, but days of malnutrition make it almost pointless. I have no strength left within me to battle my new reality. I hear soft voices, and they sound far off again. They are trying to comfort me, but I'm long past that. I'm almost elated when I feel the cool rush of medication, followed by blissful desolation and freedom from pain.

* * *

Haymitch is sitting at my side the next time I come to.

Gone is the floating feeling. I am attached to this world whether I like it or not.

He has been styled simply, in dark pants and some collared top. The silver flash sticks out, and I'm wondering if he's preparing me for bad news.

I swallow, glad that this time, I seem to have some wetness in my mouth to fix it. I can't look at him, the yellow lights against the white ceiling help my focus on the words that will rip out my soul. 'She's dead. Katniss is dead and you're the victor.' I play this over and over in my mind, hoping that by the time I hear my mentor say it, It won't break me. "Just say it, Haymitch." My voice is soft and rough, and I'm not sure that he's heard me. His laughter throws me off.

"Being a peg leg isn't a bad thing, kid."

A strap across my waist stops my from sitting up. And I only fight against it once before I let my head tip to side. I don't process the words, my focus too concerned with how I will show my face again in Twelve. I am not sure at what point I started to press against the restraints once more. And my words don't seem like English. There are doctors swarming in, but Haymitch stops them.

He stands, pressing a hand into my shoulder, pushing me back against the table with strength I don't understand. My face must look wild and desperate, because that is how I feel in this moment. The blonde man shoots a glare at the doctors. "No one told him?" He laughed a little more, his other hand sweeping back my overgrown bangs affectionately. His face softens a bit, and I am incredibly surprised by his fatherly actions. I never thought he cared for me, not in the way he seemed to prefer Katniss. The Seam always seemed to stick together. "I don't know how you two did it. Not one, but two Victors from Twelve. Hell of a surprise, Mellark."

Two? That means…

"She's fine, kid." My body relaxes against the bed, not needing him to hold me there. In what must have been drug fueled nightmares, I saw her body against the lush green grass of the arena. I saw her with blood pooling of her mouth. Her body, battered and broken, finally ended with the poison of the berries. I saw my sword through her chest. I watched the train pull into Twelve, her family sobbing as her body is unloaded. I saw the hundreds of different reactions that were all my fault.

I watched her die 100 ways in my mind. My chest still aches, but I don't feel sick anymore.

I'm not really comprehending what his previous comment means, too happy to know that Katniss is alive and well. That we both will make it home. Haymitch doesn't look to the doctors when he released the thick strap that held me against the table. His gives me a hand up and I try to sit up for the first time in what feels like days.

But I'm unable to lift my left leg. At first, I thought it was just because I was tied down. But I couldn't wiggle the toes that should have been there. There was no foot to extend, no calf to flex. The thigh on my left side is still strapped down, and I rip the blankets away. Searching for a foot that wasn't there.

I stare down at the leg, and I know that Haymitch is giving me a chance to get used to the idea. He says nothing, watching me carefully. I look up at him once, wondering exactly how I had gone from a whole boy to this. A closer look at the wound reveals a perfect stump. The skin is smooth, not puckered like you would expect from a surgical adaptation. They've blended any artificial skin into my own. Gingerly, I reach down to touch where the leg should have been. My knee is there, still whole and healed. But just below the joint, there is nothing.

"They want to fit you with a prosthetic as soon as they can. They've been postponing the celebrations, but every one is sick of waiting." He tried to keep his voice light, but I could hear the hidden message. I want to say something, to press him for more information. But the look on his face shows that this is not the place for it.

Now is not the time to react.

I'm silent as I nod, and Haymitch is allowing a doctor to step in. I want say something, to ask more questions, but I'm pulled back under a medicated blankets of nothingness.

And for the first time, I'm glad for it.

* * *

A pretty, dark haired woman in a white coat is waiting for me to wake the next time I'm conscious. I don't recognize her as a part of my team, but she has something wrapped on her lap. I don't have to think very long to wonder why she's here. I don't know how long it's been since I've been pulled from the Arena.

"Hello, Mr. Mellark. My name is Dr. Thatch." I slowly sit up, taking my time due to the new shift in weight. I'm top heavy, even though I haven't eaten much in several days. Although I seem like I might topple over, she does not help me. And I'm grateful for that— I'll need to get used to it sooner or later. There are no straps holding me down on the table either.

I finally notice that the room is pure white, with one wall of darkened glass. And I can't help but wonder who is on the other side.

The doctor doesn't wait for an invitation as she stands, placing her parcel on the bed next to me. "While you were sedated, we went ahead and made the mold for your leg." I pull the sheet off of the new appendage. The shine of the metal is harsh in contrast to my skin. They've designed it to closely resemble the shape of my other leg. But they make no attempt to hide that is it a replacement, mechanical and I'm angry about it, about the fact that it even exists, but my mouth won't rebel with my brain. I feel groggy, like everything has been blurred. My vision, my emotions— all of it feels subdued.

I can only guess that this is due to some blend of medication that I've been given.

"Some Victor's choose to parade the loss of limb. But we assumed that because this was your leg, you would want a replacement." She was cold as she spoke, distant. I run a hand through my hair, trying to gather myself. Her speech continues, but I don't pay attention to the words. I'm mesmerized by the idea of this leg will somehow make up for putting me in the Games in the first place.

She slips a thick, sock like piece of silicone material onto the stump, making sure it fits snuggly around it. It goes up past my knee, and I can't stop the bitter thought of 'there go shorts' that runs through my mind. The doctor places the prosthetic on, just below my knee. "You're lucky that it's below the knee. Your recovery will be easier with the joint intact." I simply nod, swinging my legs over the table. The fit it good, tight enough that it doesn't feel like it's going to fall off, dangling like it is. I'm still nervous that it might fall to the floor. But the doctor grabs a metal frame I'm to use for walking.

I feel weak, but I don't allow her to help me off the table. I really don't want to use the contraption she brought in to help me walk, since I haven't been down that long. But I can feel myself fall as I try to put weight on the leg, not used to the pressure points that were being put on my knee. I grab onto it, as if it will be enough to help keep my upright. But it's not and I'm tumbling to the ground before either of us could stop it.

The crash sends in others, but I push them away, refusing any help to get off the floor. This is my life now, right? I need to be able to do this. It's a struggle, and I can tell that the people in the room want nothing more than to get me up quickly and get on with their day. I'm up off the floor in a few minutes. It's all I can do to stand there for a few moments, getting used to the new balance of weight before I have to sit back down, too weak to do more than that.

She gives me a break. I try to ask about Katniss but she won't say much. I ask to see her, but she just shrugs, as if she doesn't know where she is. I doubt that is the case, but I'll be patient. She's alive at least. And if I remember correctly, she should be fairly unharmed as well. Any injuries were probably healing like mine had.

It's almost 3 hours later, but I'm able to slowly walk with the help of a cane. It's an improvement, she tells me. It's impressive how far I've come. But it wasn't like she gave me a choice in the matter. The leg is pulled off, along with the sleeve to protect the skin. It's red and raw, painful to the touch. It feels sweaty, the whole limb hot to the touch. I'm exhausted, falling into the hospital bed without the meager meal I am offered.

And that night, I don't need medication to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, I'm woken up by Effie. She's pulls me into a hug and I can't help but appreciate the friendly, familiar face. I sit up, unable to stop myself from pulling her into a hug. She's a little uncomfortable, but I don't really seem to care. She gently pats my cheek as we pull away, gushing about a 'Big, big, big day'.

"How's Katniss?"

The words are out of my mouth before I could stop them. She smiles at me, eyes glimmering with tears that are nothing but happy. "She's anxious to see you, too. But we thought it would be sweet to air the reunion on live television." I don't want to do it with thousands of people watching on. But I won't have a choice, will I?

She waits while I eat a small breakfast of warmed oatmeal and milk, chatting animatedly about the plans to return home. I try to pay attention, but I'm too nervous about seeing Katniss again. I try to steer the conversation in that direction, but Effie won't have any of it. It's not long before I'm settled into a wheelchair and pushed into what I recognize as my old remake room. We must have been in the Training Tower the entire time. Haymitch is waiting there with Portia. I'm able to stand, using my new cane to steady me as we embrace. Haymitch doesn't say much, watching each step I take to make sure that I am steady enough to do this.

The thought of seeing Katniss again helps me forget about the pain in my leg. My stylist has my team prep me. My body has been healed of all wounds, even the old scars from kitchen injuries. The team can't stop talking as they scrub me down. Lying naked, my leg sitting on the table next to them, this whole thing seems silly. How had I even survived? I tuned out the rambling of my team.

For the first time since my name was pulled from that bowl, I thought about a future. Life would be easier, for the most part. Victors were given homes to live in, money to spent. They no longer had to work, to go to school. For the rest of my life, I would be paraded around once a year. I would watch children be brought to the slaughter, knowing that they had very little chance of winning. Twelve never won. I would have to find a way to live with watching kids die, knowing it was my fault.

It was easy to see why Haymitch had turned to alcohol for comfort.

But at least I would have Katniss.

It didn't take long for the team to get me back to 'show ready'. My hair is trimmed and styled, glossed back to something stylish and modern. I don't like it, but at least I look healthy again. My face is still thin, but there is color back in it. Even my nails have been cleaned, to the point where I'm sure there is a clear coat of something on them. I know it must take Katniss twice as long to get ready.

I'm anxious to be done, to be with her again. I hate the separation, not knowing that she is really alright. The need is raw in my gut, stronger than any feelings I might have about my leg. I can deal with that later. Focusing on that isn't going to make it better. My leg won't magically grow back. But I can manage with her at my side. And that is enough to get me through what feels like agonizing pain. Every other step might make me cringe, but it will be alright.

Portia finally comes back into the room, a pair of heavy black boots in her hand with a garment bag. I'm wrapped in a thick robe, watching as she carefully sets the bag down on the bed. I want to watch her open the bag, to see what she's got us in this time. But I focus on putting on my leg instead. I can feel her eyes on me, knowing that my stylist must be feeling pity towards me. I don't want it, and I have no desire to see it.

Once it is in place, I finally stand, bending down to test how well it works. I don't have much strength, not enough to try and squat down. But it will do, for now.

Portia pulls me into a hug, animated as she pulls out a shirt the color of diluted honey. I'm not sure about the color at first, but with the choices of our prior outfits, this only makes sense. It is softer then candlelight. And when I inspect the fabric closer, it's easy to see the gentle shine woven into the strands. We have been set ablaze and now, Portia beams, we shall glow with victory.

It's thoughtful, but I can't say that I honestly care at this point.

All I want is to take Katniss home, to settle into my life again in Twelve. And to come to terms with everything.

Portia has thought of everything. My left shoe is weighed down, which will help remind my leg to take the right stride. I won't topple over onto the stage, and with a slight shift of my body weight, the shoes will act as a counter balance to keep me upright. They are designs so that my new found disability isn't obvious.

I can only guess that this is something the Capitol has required. They wouldn't want their newest Victor to appear weak.

There was an underwhelming aspect to the outfit that I could appreciate. It wasn't too bold, it wasn't fire— it was me. This was something I might wear, that I would pick out for myself. My skin has developed a rich tan from the Arena, only creating greater contrast with the soft yellow of the shirt. I close my eyes, picturing Katniss in something similar, surprised that I'm expecting her to look the way I saw her in the Games. The moment has been replaying in my mind since it happened. Caked in mud and close to death, her appearance seemed celestial.

Sunlight streaming from behind her, her face beaming in success from finding me. She was a nymph, coming to take me away.

I don't want to wait any longer.

I'm dressed and led towards the familiar stage. This time, I don't feel like a lamb being taken to the slaughter. There is no big reveal for the cameras, nothing to make sure I get right. There will be an interview tomorrow—tonight is just the recap. Still, I'm desperate to see Katniss, my right foot tapping against the floor with impatience. I'm tempted to push down the flimsy, makeshift wall they've built to keep us from seeing each other. The need courses through my veins. After everything we've been through, I'm almost willing to do what I want and say to hell with the consequences. But as I'm about to strike, Haymitch appears.

I'm able to relax at the sight of him. His hug feels odd, since the man has never done anything like that before. He claps my back as he steps away, "She's a knockout, kid. Enjoy this."

I want to say more to him, but he's gone just as quickly as he came. Someone pulls to me to the side of the stage, and the sound of the Anthem of Panem is deafening. For a brief moment, my mind is thrown back into the Arena. My pulse quickens, and I can hear it in my ears almost as loudly as I can the anthem. My head tips towards the sky, wondering if I will see the images of those who were lost. For a moment, I'm sure I can hear the triumphant laughter of Cato.

But it fades into the roar of the crowd. My heart is racing, but I'm not able to pin down the cause. Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, gently pushing my out into the blinding lights of the stage.


	2. Chapter 2

So I know the picture is of a right foot, which is inaccurate. But that's how I picture Peeta's leg, so I'm sticking with that one. I think my biggest focus on the story is going to be showing how Peeta might have dealt with the struggle of everything after the Games. I really don't like the idea of recapping the full series from him point of view. Once I get past the main things I want to focus on, I might just hit a few special moments here and there. For now, we will just see where it goes.

Beyond Repair

By: Her Voice

I'm not sure how long it takes for my vision to clear. The lights are incredibly bright and they only highlight how artificial this all seems. I wave to the audience as I step out on stage, the volume only growing louder as I do. I see Caeser on the stage, really wondering just how long I was out for— he looks like he hadn't changed his clothing since the interview.

If it wasn't for the piece of metal on the end of my knee, I might have thought the whole thing had been a dream.

My eyes seem to easily filter out the bright lights, bringing everything back into clear focus. And the audiences increased celebration forces my head to turn to the opposite side of the stage.

Each time I've seen her on this stage, in this surreal setting of the Capitol, Katniss has stolen my breath. Even in the simple pale blue dress of Reaping Day, I can see how beautiful she truly is. But with everything we have been through, seeing her now is the most important moment in my life.

She is mine and I am hers, and nothing else seems to matter.

I get a brief moment to take in how perfectly healed is she before she runs towards me. The impulsive girl doesn't even give me a chance to really look at her. I know that I'm nervous, because I don't know if my body will cooperate. But she doesn't give me any time to think on that, which is probably for the best. If she had given me a chance to think, I would have stopped her, afraid to fall to the floor. I don't even have time to spread my legs apart to help absorb the blow.

I rock back slightly as she launches herself into my arms, holding her close to my body with one arm while using the other to press my cane as hard into the ground as possible. When I am sure we aren't going to tumble to the floor, I wrap my other arm around her. Even with the sudden shift of my weight, the shoes seem to be doing their job to keep me anchored. I allow myself to appreciate this moment, as it should be.

Even with the Capitol's intense bathing system, Katniss still manages to smell so distinctly of home. It has been days since we have been in the woods, albeit Capitol built. But unlike the Arena, there is no burnt edge to the smell that clung to her body the past few days. She smells so clean, and it's the smell of her that tells me this is reality. Moments spent in the haze of medication and the only thing they had in common was the lack of smell.

Maybe it was due to being in the sterile walls of the medical unit.

The dusky floral notes invade my mind and my head drops to her hair, breathing her in deeply. Everything else fades. We are not on the stage, cameras pointed at us with all of Panem watching. We are back in the cave, where nothing else but surviving seemed to matter. There is no rancid smell of infected issue, nor am I seeing everything under a fevered blur. It's easy to hold onto her now, when we both finally feel whole. It doesn't take me long to press a kiss to her temple.

She angles her head up to mine and the storm of grey overwhelms me. I can't read her eyes, but I do feel the desperation that matches my own. I drop my head to hers, my lips finding hers like magnets.

I don't know what's more intoxicating — the electricity behind the touch or the taste of sweet bread on her tongue. Our kisses are innocent, but I hope she can feel the relief I try to pour into them. She is whole and alive and in my arms. It's not until I feel a polite tap on my shoulder that I even remember who is watching.

I don't want the interruption. I push Caeser away, allowing my hand to fall back to Katniss. My hands are lost in her hair, loose at her shoulders. This is the first time I've ever seen her with her hair down, and it's fantastic. I take a moment to study the lines of her face, much like I did in the cave. My fingers itch to trace the curves of her cheeks, to make this exact view of her a permanent sketch on paper.

Katniss leans into to kiss me, as if she needs this as much as I do. The roar of the audience intensifies when I kiss her back. This is our moment.

I could spent the rest of my life memorizing her face. I continue to kiss her, to lose myself in her gaze, in her lips. We have fought too hard to be together, to live, to not enjoy it now. I do not need the money they will give, or the house or the freedom. All I need for the rest of my days is her.

As much as I want to continue, the moment is broken by Haymitch, who all but shoves us towards the plush red love seat that replaces the usual throne. I settle into it, glad to have the pressure off my new limb. Maybe if I had a few more days to get used to it, the short amount of time I spent on the stump wouldn't have been so painful. But after what must be less than 20 minutes, I don't think I can stand on it for much longer. It's nice to be able to get off of it without making the limb obvious.

I place the back of my arm on the furniture, allowing Katniss to get comfortable next to me. But just when I think she is settled, she kicks off her shoes and tucks her legs underneath her, allowing her head to fall to my shoulder. I press one more kiss to her temple before focusing on the crowd, on Caeser.

He is the not the only person who is as elated that we are both alive as we are; the whole crowd can't get enough of the two of us. It takes him a few minutes to calm the crowd down, and I know that being as affectionate as I want to be won't help. Still, I slip my other hand into hers, giving her one more anchor to hold onto.

Caeser welcomes the audience to the recap, starting off by speaking to just how incredible these Games really were. He's vague, keeping the audience hooked on the love story for a long as he can. I'm glad that he's not going to ask us questions, because I'm almost sure that I'm not ready to talk about it. It's still so fresh.

And reliving it isn't going to make that any better.

I have no interest in seeing this, and by how tense Katniss is in my arms, I am sure that she doesn't want to watch it either. She grabs my other hand and I squeeze her shoulders. Just like in the Games, we are in this together.

I watch because doing the opposite is not an option. There are screens everywhere, and I won't close my eyes to this. I won't let her watch it alone. I can feel her stiffen at the interviews, wondering what exactly is going through her mind as she hears that I have cared for her as long as I have. I kiss her cheek and the crowd eats it up.

This is a different experience, watching the Games from angles we didn't know existed. I can finally appreciate everything she did to survive. She is skilled, nimble as she climbs trees and kills game. I watch her cautiously as she learns exactly how I fought just as hard to keep her alive. Her eyes darken slightly when she watches me stay up all night to keep her safe. And her cheeks flush when she drops a tracker jacker nest onto us. I want to whisper something in her ear, but it seems unimportant.

I don't want her to watch the battle with Cato and I, but there is no way for me to pull her eyes away from the screens. Even I'm impressed with how well I am able to hold my own. Cato is well trained, as is expected from a Career. But I'm driven with a need to protect Katniss in any way that I can, and that at least helps me keep him distracted long enough to help Katniss put distance between herself and the Career Pack. They spend too much time highlighting my camouflaging, far more time than I need to see on screen. But the effect is impressive.

For the first time, I watch the explosion, the one that took her hearing. I watch the brilliant way she plans the demise of the food pile. And I'm able to hold her close when Rue dies. I can see, in the way that she mourned the girl, just how important she was. How much was she like Prim, her delicate little sister? And how much worse was Katniss's loss because of it? I didn't know that Katniss fulfilled the little girls' dying wish. She starts to sing and my eyes close. I haven't heard her really sing in more than a decade. Her voice has taken a far richer tone than the sweet melodic bells of childhood.

I was initially worried that much of Katniss's actions had been for the Games, some ploy to really keep the audience on her side. But the simple act of singing a child into her last moments on Earth are so wholly her that almost love her more than I thought I did.

I feel her tense up beside me, and I'm wondering if something was left out. I make a mental note to ask her about it later.

This recap has given me a view of the Games which I never expect to get. I watch her honest reaction when the rules change. My eyes are focused on the screen, taking in the desperation in her search, the relief that washes over her face when she finally finds me covered in mud. I may have refused to process what I was seeing, but now I am like the rest of the nation— unable to tear my eyes from the screen. The haze of fever is gone, filling in the pieces of the moments in the cave. I can tell that Katniss is embarrassed by reliving all of this, but I'm grateful for the chance to watch it.

It helps me mourn Rue along side her, and to appreciate Thrush for his sacrifice in the little girl's honor.

But what really hooks my attention is the final moments with the berries. I was so sure that I had eaten one, that I had died. That was the last memory I had. But that wasn't where it ended. No, we rinsed our mouths out in the lake, waiting for the hover to take us back to safety. The tourniquet that had been on my leg long gone, I watch as I lose a substantial amount of blood. I finally see what really happened. And with the rest of the nation, I watch as Katniss is fighting to get behind the glass as doctors pump on my chest, as they get my heart beating again.

I'm able to hold back any tears that threaten to fall, not wanting to focus on that. I want to focus on the fact that I am alive. And that I get to keep Katniss with me.

The only explanation for the missing moments in my memory seems to be the medication I was on. It must have had some sort of amnesiac effect. I'm mad that the moment is lost, but thankful that there is footage to put the pieces together. I don't even have a lot of time to process this new information before President Snow is joining us on stage with the anthem bringing him in.

I stand, offering Katniss a hand up from the couch. There is no hesitation in the touch, like she is glad for the anchor. There is a brief flashback to the chariots, when we grip hands and don't let go, before she knew the truth. We are both in disbelief, I think, that this is the real outcome. We haven't even really had time to process this.

Well, maybe Katniss has. My mind has generally been elsewhere.

I am having trouble reading the man in front of me with his one crown. And it seems the crowd is having the same reaction. But with a twist of magic, the crown separates into two. The audience's cries are renewed as he first places the thin ring of gold onto my brow before moving to Katniss. I can't help but watch, studying her face closely.

I've spent years secretly watching her face. It's never been something I've openly done, and each time she has caught my gaze, I flush with embarrassment. But there have been plenty of times where I've been allowed to look at her freely. I feel like I've learned the unguarded curves of her face. And I know, by watching her now, that there is something more going on here.

I do not know what it is, but Katniss is hiding something.

My face stays happy because I know that is the only option at this point. Because even knowing Katniss's expressions as I do, it could have been so much worse.

Either of us could be alone on this stage.

Our hands stay locked together as we smile for the cameras, waving to the cheering crowd. The reverence given to us now is much different than the last time we stood together in front of a Capitol audience. The last time, we were on fire, outshining all the other Victors as we rode towards the Capitol. Now, we are bright with both our love for each other and surviving. We have fought hard and these people feel like they are a part of our triumph.

It's sickening.

My hand stays anchored to hers as we wave to the crowd. I am almost sure that we will be left alone after this, that we will be able to at least go back to the Training Center to rest. But no, we are led by Effie to a car, where we are taken to the President's Mansion for a celebratory feast.

There is so much I want to say to Katniss, so much we need to talk about. But we are never given a moment alone. Even in the back of the car, Effie is a continuous plethora of information. She cannot contain her joy in our victory. And in her eyes, why should she? Most Escorts only get one Victor to share the excitement. But she gets two.

I barely have enough time to think about it before we are parade around once more.

There are so many people who are insistent on meeting us that I'm not even able to appreciate the room we are in, let alone the food being served. At one point, someone shoves a roll into my hand. But my throat is so dry from talking for the two of us that I don't eat it. Handing off to someone else turns me into their hero once more.

The only reassuring thing about this night has been Katniss's hand in my own. Her grip is like a vice at times, when the conversation becomes too much. But how can I let go when she is the only thing keeping me upright? A simple squeeze of her hand in mind makes me forget the pain in my leg. The way her body curls into mine when people get close gives me purpose. If nothing else, we are all the other has. Little more is more important than that.

By the time we are back in the car, I am exhausted. My hand is almost frozen in hers, stiff against the moisture of our skin. But still, I am hesitant to let her go. We need to talk, to have a moment alone with no cameras watching as we do. I can tell that she is anxious to talk without prying eyes.

But I am not in the mood for the conversation we need to have.

I can hardly think, not with the horrendous throb that extends into a limb that is no longer there. What makes the pain worse is that there is nothing I can do to help the blood flow, which would help with the stiffness. I try to flex the toes on the opposite foot, but it doesn't help. Even trying to bend the knee to its full range of motion is impossible. I'm irritated at the pain, but I can hide it until I'm alone. She doesn't need to see that from me, not yet anyway.

The moment we are out of the car, Portia pulls me towards her. She can tell that I am tired and with an excuse of some final fitting, she helps me to my room for the night.

The limb does not come off fast enough. If I was in a worse mood, I might have thrown it across the large room. I don't even have the stamina for that. I set it on the floor next to my bed, pulling off the silicone sleeve that is supposed to help keep the prosthetic from rubbing me raw. The entire remaining leg is red and hot, angry from extensive overuse. I barely have the energy to slather on the cream that was left to ease the pain before I collapse into bed. I am not awake more than a few minutes before I succumb to exhaustion.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the awful formatting. I posted this from work without realizing just how badly it had transferred over. Sometimes does not like Pages. Thanks Knife, for pointing it out!

Beyond Repair

By: Her Voice

I'm incredibly surprised with how truly refreshed I feel when I wake up. Maybe it's a combination of a familiar bed and safety, or maybe it's because of how late we were up last night. But even with the knowledge of another long day spent on my new appendage, I'm looking forward to today. It's going to be painful. We are going to have to talk about the Games and our feelings, which Katniss has obviously never been very good at. But after that, it's home.

Home.

I've never even thought of that possibility. I said all my goodbyes, counting on never seeing the dusty streets of Twelve again. I knew that I was going to die because I would not be able to kill Katniss. That left dying as the only option, and I hate to say that I was okay with it.

Honestly, it's not like my family needs me.

I wasn't profitable at the bakery until my mother discovered that I was fairly good with icing. Her opinion was that anyone could be taught a recipe and could bake. I was replaceable, until my father suggested that I started putting small decorations on the cookies. Then, she realized that I was marketable. I could bring in more money to the business.

Even then, I just decorated things. It was something, she had told me before I left for the Games, that she could do without. That she would be fine to do without. Because Twelve would finally have a Victor and she would have one less mouth to feed.

I knew my father and brothers would have a harder time with the loss. My brothers might have been older, but my mom was abusive to all of us. It was something that bonded us together from a young age. I think my father was envious of that, too. Of the fact that we could turn to each other when he had to do it alone.

My brothers and I protected each other as best we could. For the most part, we were able to stay out of her way. Mom didn't like the idea of a bakery— that was Dad's baby. Add to that the fact that my mother always felt like my father settled for her: my mother went into the marriage bitter and never recovered. If my father hadn't been about to inherit the bakery, she never would have married him.

She wasn't a romantic. Children might have been mouths to feed, but they were also free labor.

I know my mom doesn't like the Everdeens. And I'm almost positive that she hates that she as to see the woman my father would have rather married as often as she does. So I'm sure that she won't be too thrilled that not only did I do everything in my power to save Katniss, I'm coming home with her.

But I won't have to live in her home. I won't have to put up with her anger, or her fits of jealousy when my father shows someone else other than her attention. I won't have to make excuses for why I have bruises to my friends. Or be forced to keep it to one meal because there is too much work to do and not enough to go around. Winning the Games doesn't just mean peace for me. It will give my brothers a refuge.

I don't know how they will react when I get home. I really have no idea what to expect. But I get to go home. And that's a new prospect for me.

The air has been cleared. There are no more secrets now, not on my end. Katniss is well aware of how I feel, and although it is new for her, she cares for me too. The idea of no longer being alone elates me. Because as messed up as the situation is, we are in this together.

I'm anxious to see her, to finally get to talk to her after days of nothing. I want an un-televised conversation, where we don't have to be guarded.

I've slept as long as I can. I don't know what to expect when I throw back my covers, but it was not a well healed leg. There are no welts or reddening on the leg. It does not look like the inflamed, angry flesh of last night. The cream must have been more than just a cream.

Someone has been in my room, placing the leg upright next to the bed. They've also appeared to wash out the silicone sleeve, it resting on the nightstand. A small breakfast has been left on the table with a large pot of what I only can assume is hot chocolate.

But I don't want to eat alone. I want company. And I want Katniss.

I struggle with the prosthetic for a few moments, but like the rest of the day, it seemed to slip into place. There are loose fitting pants at the foot of the bed with a soft cotton shirt. I'm too embarrassed to leave the fake foot exposed, but I don't have the confidence to put on just socks. Portia thought of everything, putting a pair of sturdy slippers next to the bed.

I try to turn the lock, but it's been barred from the outside.

It's frustrating, but I know that I don't have a choice. Pounding the door down isn't going to solve anything. After the interview, we will be on the train for Twelve. I can last that long, at least.

It's almost noon before I hear the door unlock and watch as my prep team bursts into the room. They are animated, unable to stop talking about the party from the night before. They shove me into the large bathroom, but because I've already put on my leg, they settle for washing my hair for me. I really don't mind the attention, allowing myself to zone out with their animated conversation.

I could stare at them for days, trying to memorize the bright colors of their outfits, wondering if I can copy the striking tones with icing. They all have different questions, and I can barely keep up with them to answer each one. They can tell I'm anxious to get out of there, so they work quickly. They lather shampoos in my hair and creams on my face. My hair is styled into something I could never hope to replicate, far more structured than I like.

Portia joins us with a pressed pair of red pants and a simple white dress shirt. I can't say that I know the look they are going for, but it's not my place to ask. Portia has done nothing but make sure that I am the perfect compliment to Katniss. Just like Katniss and I, her and Cinna are a team. With so many people on our side, how could we not succeed from this point on?

I'm in the same sturdy boots as the night before, but this time I know that I will be sitting and hopefully won't need them. I'm already up on my feet when Haymitch comes into the room. I don't want to be separated from her any longer. After everything that's happened, I can't help but feel anxious that I haven't seen her. "Locked door, huh?" I finally ask him, wondering why he felt the need to do it. Even before the Games, we weren't blocked from each other. This was new, and I'm not sure that I like it.

He must have picked up on the bitterness in my voice, because he rolls his eyes at me, "You guys have the rest of your lives for that happily ever after crap. Both of you looked like you could use a night apart." There is something about the way he is staring at me. I want to ask more, to question the odd look on his face. But I refrain. Whatever his reasoning is, it must be good.

He's the Mentor. He understand everything about this better than we ever could. So I trust that he had a reason for it and deal with it.

As much as I ask her not to, Portia insists on putting a little makeup on my face. I don't get much of a say, and the longer I fight, the longer it is until I see Katniss. I let her put the finishing touches on my look before I step into the main room, relieved to see that Katniss is already there. I'm in such a hurry to see here that I've forgotten the slim silver cane from the night before.

My heart lightens at the sight of her. She looks young, far younger than any of her previous outfits. And the white dress she is in screams innocence. I don't have time to think about the reason behind it, because the look on her face is so worrisome. Her eyes are deepened by concern, but I'm almost certain it is because the spotlight is going to be on her for the next few hours. Katniss does not do well when the attention is centered on her. She must know that I will do all I can to make this as painless as I can.

While everyone is busy with the final touches, I'm able to pull her away. Even if the moment will be brief, I will take what I can get. I smile at the relief in her eyes, hoping she can see the same feeling mirrored in my own. "I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart." I am tempted to mention the locked door, but I don't.

Her face is too amusing, the way she almost glares at our mentor with a curt nod. "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately." So she has noticed, too.

Well, at least we know he's capable of it.

I brush a piece of her hair behind her ear. "Well, there's just this and we go home." I grin a little, "Then he can't watch us all the time." I want to do something to lighten the mood, to help ease her into the next few hours. But there is something bothering her, something she won't share. Well, I can't expect her to open up to me completely. She's been dealing with things on her own for years. It is going to take time for her to realize that she is no longer alone.

We are in this together, after all.

Caeser is pulling us towards the couch with his voice and we have no choice but to do as he says. I settle onto the couch, feeling stiff, knowing that something more is going on. But I can't place my finger on it. Maybe it's just the fact that Katniss hates the whole interview process. But the Master of Ceremonies insists that we get cozy.

She doesn't hesitate as she kicks off the pink shoes Cinna has put her in and tucks back into me. It feels natural for me to put my arm around her, to give her whatever comfort I can offer her in this. My hand falls gently onto her shoulder, and I'm perfectly happy for the first time in a while. For me, this feels easy. There is no complicated reveal, with nothing on the line. This is just about us, just about what happened.

I don't hesitate with Caeser, falling right back into the banter we are used to. I don't mind that Katniss chooses to stay quiet, because I'm able to fill in the silence with ease.

For the most part, I like Caeser. His job might be incredibly morbid, but he's good at it. He's been doing it for so long that it is second nature to him. How he can find everyone's finest qualities in such a short amount of time is beyond me. Maybe he talks to the Mentors, or maybe he's just so incredibly observant that he doesn't have to. He gets so little information, it would seem, and yet he gives everyone equal footing.

We laugh and banter. The bond we've made is superficial, it would seem, but it feels natural. A part of me expects Katniss to be disinterested in the whole thing. But she is surprisingly interactive. No, she doesn't do much talking. But she's more than just there. She's holding my hand, giving it a squeeze if the topic gets tough. Her eyes often meet mine, the look holding such affection that I am thrilled.

Katniss surprises me when she does talk. Her words are few, but they show that she is there. I can tell when she is ready to be done talking, because I pick up the conversation as much as I can. "Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?" I give Katniss a smile, focusing back on Caeser.

"From the moment I laid eyes on her." I say in earnest, pleased to see Katniss's cheeks blush. I don't know whether it is from my answer or because the attention is about to shift to her.

Caeser's eyes are locked on hers, the sparkling of the blue almost overwhelming. "But Katniss, what a ride for you! I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When exactly do you realize that you were in love with him?" The question has me interested, too.

I didn't get to watch it from the same view as the rest of the world. I've always been an open book, since the moment I revealed my feelings in front of Caeser the first time. From then on, it wasn't something I was going to hide. It was out, so why try to make it less than it was?

I did carry some guilt for bombarding her with the news. It honestly wasn't something I planned on ever telling anyone. She didn't even know much about me, other than that I was the baker's son. I planned on never having to deal with her feelings towards me, and that was selfish. But Haymitch told me that it was a good idea, and if I wanted to gain help for the two of us, telling the world was our best option.

It would blow them out of the water.

And I was doubting that she had feelings at all. With as little time we got to spend together since the end, it was easy to do.

I watch her intently, knowing that she does not want to be on the spot like this. She laughs softly, her hands suddenly interesting. "Oh, that's a tough one." I don't know what I'm expecting her to say. I don't really expect her to have an answer at all.

"Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from that tree!"

She looks happy for the reminder, settling into my shoulder as she relaxes a bit. "Yes, I guess that was it. I mean," she glances over at me, "until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed." I smile softly, blending the images of the recap in my mind.

I see her covering her mouth shortly after calling out my name. That could be the moment I realized it, too.

"Why do you think that was?" Caeser asked.

Her hands become interesting again, like she doesn't want to have to see our reactions. "Maybe… because for the first time," she hesitates, emotions never a topic she wants to discuss it would seem. She pauses for a moment, "there was a chance I could keep him." If I was holding my breath, I let it out.

As I'm sure the rest of Panem did as well.

Suddenly, the gentle touch on her shoulder is not enough. I rest my head into her temple, nuzzling her with open affection. I don't care about Caeser's reaction. The world around us disappears and it's just the two of us. I grin a little, "So now that's you've got me, what are you going to do with me?" I want to lighten the moment, because I can tell that it would make it easier for her.

I don't expect her to turn to me, the stormy grey of her eyes holding mine in a way only she could. With all seriousness, she says, "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt." I smile, unable to stop the kiss that followed. I keep it short, because we have other things we need to talk about. But it is reassuring. Exactly what I needed.

Caeser takes the opportunity to highlight our injuries, speaking about each moments as if we didn't live them. I'm praying that he doesn't make any comments regarding my leg. I feel like it is my secret, like something I only have to tell those I choose. It couldn't possibly be public knowledge, not with as little time as we've spent on the screen. But he asks me how the new leg is working, and I know that this is no longer my choice.

"New leg?" Her eyes meet mine for a moment before she is shifting to lift the leg of my pants. Exposing the metal and plastic limb for all the world to see. My choice would have been to show her privately, but again, that's stolen from me, too. "Oh no…"

Caeser at least looks slightly guilty as he gently meets her gaze. "No one told you?"

I try to make it seem like it's not a big deal, like it's not as life altering as it really is. "I haven't had the chance." I shrug, too concerned about Katniss's reaction to care about trying to explain myself to the Nation. My eyes are on her with no idea what is gong on in her mind. I wanted it to happen so differently. To let her know that I am happy to be alive and that I will be okay. To hold her hand and show her what was fixed.

Another thing stolen. Added to the list of insignificant things that I can't let matter to me.

But the guilt is so apparent on her face that I want to hold her close. "It's my fault. Because I used that tourniquet."

My eyes roll a little, just for her. She is not used to the sarcastic side of me, but I show it now because it's a part of me, too. "Yes, it's your fault I'm alive." My arms are tight around her, begging her to not blame herself for it.

Caeser can sense her distress and reinforces my words. "He's right. He'd have bled to death for sure without it." But she's long past caring what others think. She buries her head into my shirt and my focus shifts back to her. I rest my head on top of hers, saying nothing at first. She'll get used to the idea, just like I will. And we will move on from it.

I would let her stay all day, but we have to continue with the interview. I'm gentle as help her join us back, my hands on her shoulder. I'm light as a feather with my tugs, hoping to draw a smile from her. She's hesitant, but she eventually comes back out. I make sure that any further questions won't really be focused back on her. I can protect her from that, at least.

But I can't answer what was going through her head with the berries. And that's an obvious point that needs to be talked about. It was the whole reason we were both here, together. I wasn't in her head, even though I had already sentenced myself to death when I let her remove the arrow from the tourniquet in my leg. I knew that if she couldn't kill me, I would bleed out and it wouldn't matter either way.

Caeser is gentle when he asks her to explain what was going on in her mind.

She's quiet for a moment, and I can tell that she isn't ready to talk about it. But she doesn't have a choice, not with his direct line of questioning. She's never been eloquent with words, so her short reply isn't surprising.

But it's the most meaningful thing I've heard come from her lips. My eyes are on hers when I tell Caeser that I've got nothing to add. She's my focus, pulling her in for one more kiss before our host is signing off for the day. I'm laughing with Katniss, because it's over. Haymitch seems beyond content with how it went. He simply claps me on the back before moving to Katniss, pulling her in for a comforting hug.

The reality of it all is sinking in, and the whole room seems to break down in various stages of joy. Some are crying, either because it was a beautiful moment or because they are sad to see us go. Others are laughing, sharing jokes with one another. But the absolute happiness in the room is palpable.

This time, leaving Katniss is a little easier, because I know that we will be back together on the train shortly. I go back to my room, to collect what little things I've acquired over the past few days. A bag has been pack with clothing provided by Portia to get me through the first few days back home.

And she has promised to fill my closet with clothing befitting a Victor.

Katniss takes a little longer to join the rest of us out in the living room. There are more hugs, private goodbyes to the people we need to say goodbye to. Haymitch will be with us, but we thank our prep team, who won't be following us to the train station. As silly as they seem, their part in keeping us alive deserves some recognition.

Hand in hand, Katniss and I sit silently in the car on our way to the station. As much as there is to say, I don't think I'm ready to break the peace. My thumb is gentle as it draws delicate patterns across her perfect skin. I am anxious for this to be all over. I want to talk to her alone, to be able to speak freely without worrying about others. There will be obstacles, but after everything we've been through, they seem unimportant.

I really have no idea how we get on the train. I remember plenty of flashes and screaming. But I don't remember actually getting onto it. I'm a little mad because I would have liked to have remembered what I told Effie, or Portia. But I am sure I said the right thing. And in a few months, we will see them again on the Victory Tour.

It's easy to tug Katniss towards the observation car, where we can better take in our final moments in the Capitol. People are still watching, and we can hear the cheering. But I think for both of us, we are anxious to leave. The moment we pass through the dark tunnel, revealing the daylight of new found freedom, she relaxes. Her shoulders drop into something far more comfortable. She looks at me for a moment, our eyes connecting. For the first time, her face doesn't appear to be covered in a mask of indifference. I smile, and she smiles back.

We walk hand in hand back to the dining cart, saying nothing.

The air feels light in the cabin, like we are all floating from the joy of it. Conversation hovers on light topics, nothing that might make either of us skittish. No one speaks of the Games. No one mentions my leg.

There is mandatory viewing, and even Victors returning on the train are required to watch. The interview starts, and it doesn't take long before Katniss excuses herself to change out of the white dress.

She's not gone long. But when she returned, slipping into the seat beside me, I can tell that something has changed. Her body is a little stiffer, taking her longer to get comfortable against me. I try not to think about it, but I can't help but wonder what's wrong.

The train stops for fuel, and we finally get a moment alone. I tug her out into the open air, thinking that it might help her relax. We walk the tracks, where pretty pink and white flowers dot the ground below us. I think of the white dress she was in, and can't help myself in picking the little flowers, giving them to her with a smile. Something flashes across her eyes, but whatever she is thinking, she keeps silent. "What's wrong?" I asked, concerned.

She looks like she wants to say more, but the 'nothing' that comes from her lips is halfhearted. I don't know why there has been a shift, but its there.

Haymitch comes behind us, his face unreadable as he lays a hand on each of our shoulders. "Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." He claps us on the back once more and we watch him leave.

And I'm confused.

"What's he mean?" I ask, really having no idea what he could have meant by that statement. Keep it up? Keep what up?

Her cheeks flush from embarrassment, and her eyes are unable to meet mine. "It's the Capitol They didn't like out stunt with the berries." She says it before she can change her mind, before she can come up with something else.

I still don't understand. "What? What are you talking about?" My hand is still in hers, our backs to the train as we talk.

"It seemed too rebellious. So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days, so I didn't make it worse."

I'm slow on the uptake, but I'm starting to follow exactly what she is saying. "Coaching you? But not me." My voice takes an edge that I don't expect. Maybe it's because I thought we were a team. Or maybe it's because I can sense things crumbling around me. Whatever it is, my head is starting to ache along with my leg.

She at least looks guilty as she speaks, "He knew you were smart enough to get it right."

I want to look away, to pretend that I'm hearing things wrongs. But it's falling together, finally making sense to me. "I didn't know there was anything to get right." My throat feels thick as I swallow, the next question spilling out of me before I can lose my courage. "So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess… back in the arena… that was just some strategy you two worked out?" I can feel things building in me, anger bubbling over the top like boiling water.

I wait for her to deny it, to tell me that it's a lie. But she never does. "No. I mean, I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?" Which, to me, means that she could talk to him after the fact. And that Haymitch was willing to weave the story. Without telling me.

"But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?" She tucks her lip in between her teeth and I drop her hand, feeling used. "Katniss?"

Used and so incredibly stupid.

She steps backwards, and it's clear what happened. But I need to hear her say it. "It was all for the Games, how you acted." It's not a question.

She's staring down at the flowers, which seem to be the silliest thing I've done so far. "Not all of it"

"Then how much?" I want to laugh, because my mind is beginning to betray me. I'm beginning to wonder how much of the cave was just in my mind. "No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get home?" I can feel my heart breaking as I watch her struggling to explain.

She doesn't look at me when she says, "I don't know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get." I stare at her, expecting her to explain more of her feelings. And when she doesn't, I get angry. Because being mad is easier than the pain.

"Well, let me know what you work it out." I retreat to the train, wanting nothing more than to run into the safety of my room. But my leg won't cooperate enough to run, and I won't give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me break. Haymitch tries to grab my shoulder once I'm on the train, but I'm strong enough, fueled by anger, to break the hold.

Everything is automated, so I don't get the release from slamming the door to the small space that is mine. There is nothing to break, everything bolted down to keep it from shifting. I want to rip the blankets, to tear through the small closet of items. I want to break windows, my hand with it. Because maybe real pain will dull the crushing feeling in my heart.

I skip dinner, not ready to see either of them. Sleep eludes me. Every time I think I've shut down my brain enough to sleep, I'm haunted by the idea of her. I spend half the night angry and the other half miserable. I keep hoping that she will knock on the door, demanding to explain what happened, to help me through her thought process. But the only ones who try to pull me out of my room are Haymitch and Effie.

She is what I had to look forward to when I got home, and now that's gone, too.

There really is nothing left for me in Twelve.

The next morning, I wake up before everyone else, sneaking my meal into my room so I can continue to lick my wounds. I feel empty, like everything I had thought during the Games had been a lie. And the used feeling that surrounds me is so foreign that it makes me bitter. I don't have time to replay things in my mind, like I want to. Instead, I feel the train slowing down, the rumble of the crowd outside growing with each moment.

Effie won't let me hide any longer, pulling me out of my room to be dressed for the camera. I don't look at her as I step out on the platform, watching as things start to crumble around me.

I vaguely remember what she said about the berries. That they had been seen as rebellious. That Snow hadn't been happy about it. My wits are about me enough to know that we have to keep our story straight, at least for now. Haymitch had said that we need to keep it up until the cameras are gone. I can do my part, even if it breaks me. This whole thing was about keeping her alive, and even though I am empty, I hold onto that.

She stands beside me, and I can tell that she is as lost as I am. For a while, I don't look at her. Because I don't know if I can. But I know that we have to do this. I want to cry, but I don't. Instead, I distance myself from my emotions, knowing I can think about them later. I hold my hand out to her, knowing that I can hold it together long enough to make it through this day. Her eyes meet mine, uncertain. "One more time? For the audience?" Even to me, my voice is hollow, devoid of any of its pervious emotions.

I feel her hand slip into mine, squeezing it tightly. The flashes start before we are even to the platform. I smile, I wave. I try to avoid the familiar faces in the crowd, least of all those who might make Katniss break our hold.

Her hand keeps me grounded.

But I know the moment I let go, I will fall.


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, so now that I've covered what happened at the end of the first book, I can finally get onto the more exciting stuff. I don't know how far I'm planning on taking this, but I do really want to address some things, especially in regards to dealing with depression and what not. So stick with me on this.

Beyond Repair

By: Her Voice

The weeks following the Games are painful.

Parading around the District, trying to act like we are in love without the feelings there is more than hard. It's a fine balancing act in my mind, trying to show my true feelings while not being bitter about knowing that it is a lie. Trying to act like she loved me, too. People follow us, watching everything that we do. We are expected to be deliriously happy.

Even though people are glaring. Even though most of those who are Seam born don't believe it for a second.

When the cameras are around, I decided that pretending isn't so bad.

It's something that I used to do often as a child. I would be standing at the counters of the bakery, rolling out dough and I would pretend that my mother didn't hate me. I would hear her coming in and imagine that she was rushing in to see me, sweeping me up in a hug. I would see her pressing loving kisses onto my father's cheeks. I would hear her directing me lovingly in a recipe, playfully tossing flour in my face while we laughed. I created so many happy images in my mind, it felt easy to do so with Katniss.

Each time she leaned in to kiss me, I had to remind myself that it wasn't real. Every time she searched for me in the crowd, I had to rush to her side instead of running in the opposite direction. Every smile that seemed to be just for me was a lie for the crowd. When people weren't watching, we almost acted like we didn't know each other.

Creating the relationship I want to have with her makes me ache, more so because she wants nothing to do with it.

We parted ways each night, angry. I can barely tell why she is mad. But I am so frustrated with everything. My leg aches at the end of each event and I can't rip it off soon enough. When I am home alone, I didn't even bother to wear it. I hobble around on crutches; no one there to see me in my weakness. Either way, I am reminded of what I lost.

Leaps and bounds had been made in our relationship during the Games, and now we have fallen at least a dozen steps back.

I can't look at her without being mad. Without hating myself.

And every time my eyes meet hers, it feels like it was the same look she'd give to an animal stuck in a trap.

I wish she'd just put me out of my misery.

Katniss's mother is a saving grace, even if she doesn't know it. A simple comment about Katniss being too young gives everyone a reason as to why we aren't together. With the cameras around, it is hard to stay away. But as soon as they left, no one questions why we aren't together. Everyone just assumes Mrs. Everdeen put her foot down.

A mixed blessing, really.

It is all I can do to keep busy.

Every morning, I'm wretched from sleep by nightmares, usually in the early morning hours. They are vivid, enhanced by the fact that I wake up alone. My only reassurance in their falsehood is that Katniss is very vocal with her nightmares. Her screams usually keep me grounded. From across the street, there is very little about her dreams that I don't know.

Unable to fall back asleep, I end up in the kitchen, cooking something or other, making due on the crutches. But there is only so much baking you can do before you meet your wits end. My mother refuses to sell what I bake in the store, and it's not like I can sell it myself. That is against the rules of the Victors. I can't profit in any way, not even with Capitol approval. Even if my family wished to sell the bread as their own, my mother refuses. She won't even let me back into the house.

The monotony is usually broken up by crippling depression.

Most days, I'm just fine. I might be alone, but I can function. For two or three days, I feel normal, if not a little numb.

But then, like getting slapped in the face, it hits me. I can hardly pull myself out of bed. I don't even bother with putting my leg on. And the crying always catches me off guard. I can never stop it, and I never know what is going to set it off. It's like I can go those few days completely numb, but the medication wears off and it hits me all at once. For reasons I don't understand. It never has anything to do with the Games. One time, it's because I'm short a half cup of flour. The next, it's because it's raining.

Nothing can bring me out on days like this. There is no acting normal. There is no baking.

I came home, thinking I would have Katniss in the end. And now, I'm wishing I had died in the arena.

I hate the way I feel, because it's so unlike me. Crying for a hour with no hope of stopping has never happened to me. My father thinks it's because of the Games, but I have my reason to doubt.

Depression, the doctors tell me, is a combination of chemical imbalances and psychological factors. And the Capitol prides itself on its simple pill that can fix the first part of it. I've been taking it since before being released from the hospital. For the most part, it helps. But on those days where I can't even stand, I blame the medication.

I hate the numbing separation my mind has created. As if this is a better alternative to feelings.

My whole life has been full of things that should have sent me into a downward spiral. My mother beat me on a regular basis, and yet I was still able to go to school with a smile on my face. I can eat three day-old bread and I'm still willing to share it with others. If nothing else, I can see the best of any situation. I can handle the cards I've been dealt.

And yet this one awful event happens and I'm debilitated, shattered into pieces of a person I don't even know anymore.

The Games change you.

I can't live like this. I refuse to be the broken Victor. I will not be defined completely by the Games, in ways I have no control over.

My doctors are concerned about stopping the medication without first decreasing my daily dose. But I don't care what they say. I know that someone else might benefit from them, but after the horrible reaction I have to them, I flush them down my toilet. I don't want to be responsible for someone else wishing they were dead, too.

It takes a few days before I feel any better.

When I wake up, a week after stopping the pills, I finally feel like myself. It's surprising, really, how different I feel. There is no numb cloud that hangs over me. My nightmares aren't so vivid, and I feel like i'm in control of the moments in which I wake up. I can talk myself into going back to bed, sleeping better than I have since the arena.

I feel like me. And I don't want to be a victim anymore.

I've been home for 2 months, and I feel like I just woke up off the train. I remember everything that happened, but it was as if I was watching from outside. My actions weren't my own, my brain under the control of the medication. The house doesn't look like I've been living in it— It looks like I imagine Haymitch's does. I'm glad that no one has come over to visit.

There is trash everywhere, scattered haphazardly with small clear spots to allow for my crutches to safely travel through the house. The kitchen is embarrassing, flour and pans in piles all over the surfaces. I am almost tempted to walk back outside to make sure I am in my house and not my mentor's. But I refrain, knowing that after how I've felt all week, I'm not really surprised that this is what happened. A lack of any sort of ambition, sweetened by the fog of medication, took away any chance of me making this place a home.

It takes me most of the day to clean the place up. And my leg is painful from lack of use. I can only spend a few hours on it before I'm rubbing ointment on it and taking a break. I have absolutely nothing in the kitchen in the way of edible food. I don't think that I can stand the amount of walking to fill my cupboards.

I have to decide what's more important for me— wearing my leg but suffering or letting people see what the new me entails.

I stare at the prosthetic for a while. If I had been doing the exercises that I'd been sent home with, it probably wouldn't have been so painful to wear. If I hadn't been so quick to take if off, and so against wearing it, I would have built up the endurance.

But I hadn't.

I'd tossed it aside as soon as I could. I rebelled against it, against the very idea of it. I refused to even acknowledge the loss for what it was.

It wasn't anything like learning that Katniss had been playing it up to the audience. Emotions are one thing, especially since they were something I'd had for most of my life. But the loss of something physical like a limb has to be dealt with in a different way.

This is the rest of my life. I will never magically grow back a limb. This is my home, and even though coming back from the Games was a mostly unpopular opinion, I have to deal with that. I need to be able to be at home.

And it's going to start with showing people who I really am now.

I dress in the most simple pair of pants I can find in my closet, pinning the left leg as much I can. My sweater is light, the early fall air still warm. It would take me twice as long to hobble though town, and most of the stuff would have to be delivered. But I don't have a choice— I have to eat.

I'm about to leave the house when someone knocks, one quick beat, followed by three longer ones. I'm a little nervous because I know who it is.

Amaranth, Ren to his family, is my middle brother. And he and I were close before I left for the Games. He's a year and a half years older than me, no longer eligible for the Games three days before the Reaping. He's 6 inches taller than me, his hair the same rich coffee color as my mother. But where she lives in hate, my brother tends to survive on sarcasm and sugar alone.

He's leaning against the door, grinning like he would normally. Like nothing had changed between us. He punches my shoulder and I slap his thigh with the bottom of my crutch.

Bless him, he doesn't say anything about my leg.

"If I ever get kicked out, I'm coming over here." He said, stepping into the room to look around. He eyes the bags of trash set by the door, "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not." I say with a smile. "Want to help me spend my winnings?"

He laughed, "Want to ask me a real question?"

I fall back into my usual banter. "I've lost weight, can you tell?"

"Only in the legs."

I laugh, unable to deny how normal this feels. It's been hard to figure out my place. Now that I'm off the medication and feeling more like myself, it's a little easier. Having Ren on my side, family reaching out to me; it's comforting. And I didn't think I needed it until I saw him. I resist giving him a hug, pushing him out of the door, allowing it to click behind me.

People stare.

The village is empty, so they don't stare really whispering until we make our way into the square. Since I haven't really been out much, it's the first time I've encountered it. I've never been a gossip, never been one to stare at people because I've always thought it to be rude. Ren glares at those who openly gawk, challenges anyone to say something to his face. But I feel like this is normal, too. People would stare when my mother would go off the handle and leave a bruise. I almost laughed because I'm not mad. At least, not about this. How could I be mad about being treated the same as before?

I know they are talking about my leg. I know they are whispering about the obvious lack of my 'lover'. But I'm okay with that.

Our shopping doesn't exactly go as fast as I would like it to. But we spend money throughout the square. I can afford the good flour, fine sugar and even chocolate chips and almond bark. I purchase meats from the butcher and eggs from one of the small farms nearby. I splurge on coffee and heavy creams. I can afford cheeses and expensive oils that we've never been able to use in the bakery.

Even though I feel like I've done nothing but bake since I've been home, I'm genuinely looking forward to trying some of things I can now buy. My mother won't sell it, won't allow it to benefit the family, but I have other options.

I know how many people starve in Twelve. I've seen the thin, dirty faces peering in at the sweets through the window. I've noticed the crying families who mourn the loss of a child due to starvation. I watch people dissolve into skin and bones. Even with Parcel Day, they always need more. Who better to benefit from my boredom than those who have nothing to eat?

If nothing else, it will keep me occupied.

Ren thinks of things that I wouldn't have. He stocks me up on things that I've never had to buy before— food colorings and piping tips and pastry brushes. He orders things that the family has always dreamed of but never been able to afford, like state of the art knives and fancy mixers. He makes sure that I've got every pan and bowl and measuring cup that I might not have at home. And he takes the liberty of ordering a few things for himself. I'm happy to be able to share it with my family.

Even though I fought to keep Katniss alive, I won hoping to be able to help my family.

Having that turned down added to my depression. Doing this with is Ren is helping the healing process.

It's not much, but it's something.


	5. Chapter 5

I'm bouncing between a one shot and this. Not sure which will get posted first, but at least I'll put something up! Have to keep the creativity flowing!

 **Beyond Repair**

By: Her Voice

By the time we walk through the door, my mood has been lifted exponentially. I might not be where I thought I would, but at least I'm making do.

Pushing the wheel barrel full of baking ingredients right into the kitchen, Ren has not stopped talking. He avoids any topics that might spoil the mood. Even though I want to know about our parents, about Rye and Charlotte and Dill, I don't ask. I'm not ready to think about them. I know that Ren could get into trouble for coming to see me, but our mother has learned to leave him alone. He has always been able to get away with things the rest of us couldn't.

I hobble into the kitchen, my arm tired and sore from using the crutches. It's hard not to notice the blinking red light coming from the answer machine next to the phone. Curious, I push the button, not really caring that Ren is there to hear the message, too.

 _"Peeta, darling. I've been calling you for days. It's rude not to answer your phone, dear. If you are hearing me, pick up the phone. You know what one is, right? It's the plastic thing next to the box that's talking right now. I'll give you a moment."_ I laugh in the moments of silence, picturing the pink haired Effie on the other end. _"You must be out with Katniss, which is understandable. If you get a moment, give me a call. We need to discuss your talent. I can send you list, if you'd like. But you'll need to figure out something sooner or later. You'll have to pick something before the Tour. Ta ta, dear!"_ Her voice was saccharine, artificially sweet but well-meaning.

Damn it if I don't miss her.

Ren's eyebrows are raised, and I can't exactly say that I'm not curious too. There has never been a victor in Twelve but Haymitch, and unless alcoholism is an acceptable talent, I have nothing to go on. I try to think back on the previous footage from other Victory Tours, but we have always been so busy at the bakery that it is something that's on in the background. It's never the focal point of any day in the Mellark house.

I shrug him off, knowing that I can call Effie back later. Right now, putting away all the groceries is far more important.

It takes us the rest of the afternoon to get things settled into their place. I have a stack of mail piled up in the kitchen. I'm frustrated that I don't remember bringing it in, days lost to depression and anger. I'm happy to be sitting down, to be off my crutches. My underarms feel raw. Between my stump and that, I wouldn't be surprised if I'm one giant blister by the morning.

Working in a kitchen with Ren since childhood means that he already knows how I'll use the space. The shelves quickly fill up without direction, exactly how I would have set it up. The large bags are stacked in the pantry, spices filling up the cupboard by the stove— each item has a place.

Standing in the kitchen with a clear head, I can finally see the problems with the flow. The stove is small and electric, meaning it's not as efficient as gas or wood. It is hard to have any sort of consistency with electric burners. And I'm no where near used to cooking with it. I'm already wondering how long it would take to order a new one when Ren mentions that the stove in Rye's kitchen has been broken for weeks.

Even if it isn't, I can still give this to my brother. My brother will accept it, and my mother won't say anything about it because he is no longer under her roof.

I finally get a chance to look through the large sack of mail we picked up at the train station. A thick, black envelope catches my eye, and I recognize the curly gold script belonging to Portia. I tear it open without much though, surprised to see dozens of catalogs for kitchen appliances and utensils.

 _Peeta,_

 _If your house is anything like the other Victor homes, I know that it's missing a few things you need. Part of the perks of winning the endless amounts of money you now have access to. If you ever need someone to try out a recipe on, you have my address._

 _Portia._

 _P.S. Effie has been calling me about your talent. She's worried you won't have anything ready in time for the tour. I've included a list for you to look at so that you're ready to call her back. Let me know if I can help._

Flipping the note over reveals her list. Ren is already looking through the catalogs, more interested in the newest items only available in the Capitol. I'm more fascinated in the list, in the explanation of why I need a talent.

Going to school, Portia explains, is no longer allowed. And since I have to have a way to occupy my time, the Capitol requires that I better myself. She's crossed out something about it be archaic and asinine, but only enough to leave it legible. I laugh a little, glad for her comfort, even if its in an odd way.

The list is long, filled with silly things like the violin (which I have no idea as to what that is) and writing. She's even thought enough to break it into groups. Musical talents, artistic ones, hands on— everything acceptable seems to be absolutely pointless in the real world.

I'm about to look into it further when Ren pulls me into the catalogs, my focus lost for the day. \

The next morning, I rise early. It is the weekend, meaning that the village is even fuller than it was yesterday. It takes me a while to fit the silicone sleeve back onto my leg, and even longer to talk myself into putting it on. The powder given to me by the Capitol will help keep it dry throughout the day, as long as I don't over apply it. It's easier to slip on my pants first, to pull up the leg and then slip on my prosthetic. Trying to stand on one leg, with so little use, would throw me to the floor.

Taking a day off helped, and now I can stand up normally without any pain, just some discomfort. I'd be willing to bet that the powder has something to do with that as well. I know that won't be the case for long, but for now, it's a nice change.

I'm in the kitchen when there is a knock on the door. The music is loud, so I'm surprised that I've even heard it over the noise. I wipe my hands on the front of the new apron, turning the small radio down to answer the front door.

I'm not used to visitors. Customers are one thing. People coming to see me with no expectation of spending money is another. I forget about the fame and open the door without a care.

Seeing Prim on the other side is shocking. The only person who would have been less expected would have been Katniss herself.

She looks completely different, in the way that Katniss was hoping she would always look. No longer is she wearing tattered old clothing, but something befitting a Victor. Her blonde hair is braided and clean, smelling of the unnatural scents that can only come from the Capitol. Fall has made the thick plum sweater she's in necessary. White leggings with light brown boots complete her look. She doesn't appear to be a child of the Seam, not with the way her cheeks a filled out in the past few months.

Her bright eyes beam, and I'm glad that I've cleaned up the house. She's genuinely happy to see me, and for the first time in weeks, I'm glad that Katniss volunteered. Prim is everything that is innocent. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if she hadn't come home. And we wouldn't have been able to play the star crossed angle that got us both back to Twelve. It would have been one or the other. And I would have died to protect Prim, for Katniss.

She's bouncing on the balls of her feet, as if she's ready to take flight.

Like Rue.

Luckily, she breaks my train of though before I go down a path hard to come back from.

"Peeta!" In her perfect way, she throws herself into my arms before I can say a word. She doesn't even give me a chance to try and pull away, laughing and burying her nose in my shoulder. "You always smell like fresh cookies." My arms wrap around her, unable to deny how welcome her embrace is. As much as I've isolated myself, the simple gesture means more than she will know.

She steps back, her eyes drifting around to the newly cleaned house. "The place looks great! And smells amazing. What are you cooking?" I step back, allowing her to follow me back into the kitchen, where the counters are covered with freshly made sugar cookies. The kitchen looks messy, but it's the perfect picture of the life of a baker.

I don't know if Prim has ever seen this side of a bakery, if she has ever pictured anything like it. She's in awe, giggling as she stops in front of the stove, where a timer is going off. I step in front of her, slipping on an oven mitt to pull the last batch of cookies out. The youngest Everdeen isn't far behind, watching as I set them on the top of the oven. "Oh, wow, those smell incredible! Better than the ones from the bakery!" They're the same recipe, but the ingredients are a much finer quality. Even I can lie about the smell— they're far more fragrant then the ones my family makes.

I don't want to turn away the company, so it's easy to invite her to stay and help decorate them.

She is hesitant at first, unwilling to intrude on the process. But she is easy to convince. The music is turned up once more, and the two of us fall into an easy routine.

Baking is an art, and it's easy enough for her to pick up on the specificity of it. Each measurement has to be exact. Where there is room for play, we play. We try adding almond extract instead of vanilla. We try different cookie cutters, different thickness. Prim adds a few drops of red food coloring to make the dough pink.

I have not laughed like this in a long time.

The conversation is simple, bouncing between instructions and anecdotes. She is young but witty and incredibly observant. I don't know what has brought her over, but I'm glad for it.

It's three hours later, and every last cookie is made. She and I are sitting together, her hands covered in white icing. As it dries, I show her how to paint on the cookies. They are simple, silly little flowers, primroses and lilies just for her. "These look real, Peeta."

Her voice catches me off guard, as involved as I was in the work, I don't notice how much time I've spent on them. My cheeks flush, but I just grin. "It's just some food coloring and water. Not like paint or anything."

"Don't you need a talent?" She asked, almost reading what had been on my mind all morning. The list was pinned to the refrigerator, so I would remember to really look it over when I was less occupied. "Katniss has a list, too. But I don't know if she has a clue what to choose." She's offering information I'm not asking for. And I don't stop her. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm craving news of my fellow Victor. I don't know how she's doing or coping.

Not that I've made much of an effort on that front.

"But you could paint, Peeta." Her words center me a bit, as if I should have seen it all along. "Your cakes have always been amazing. Just think of what you could do with real paints and brushes."

"You think so?"

She nods, enthusiastic about the idea. I don't know if I would have ever considered it. I've been taught to sit in the background, to take no credit for the work I have done. My mother has never considered what I've done to be anything special. And while my father has always been incredibly supportive, he isn't vocal against my mother's words.

Somehow, in the few short hours we've spent cooking, I trust her enough to show her my old sketch books. They are mostly drawn on the backside of graded homework assignments. And I'm very careful about keeping the dozens of sketches of her sister out of the stack. She's quiet as she looks through them, and I'm almost certain she is going to say that they aren't good. If I could tap my foot, I would.

I'm nervous for her opinion.

I'm able to resist tapping my foot, but when she finally looks up at me, I see something I wasn't expecting.

She looked at me in awe. "Peeta, these are incredible." Heat rushes to my cheeks. She is the first person I've ever shown these too. It was a huge step for me to say anything about them, and even bigger to show them to her. Now that's she's seen them, I feel a little relief. She thinks they are good— they must be. "Really, you're amazing. You have to paint or draw or something for your talent."

I give her a smile, taking back the pictures and pushing them off to the side. "Maybe."

The subject is dropped. As hard as she tries to push me into talking, to opening up, I just can't bring myself to do it. I don't want to burden her with my troubles. She has to worry about Katniss.

I know that Katniss is having a hard time with the whole thing. As well as she might cope during the day, I can hear her screams at night. They mimic my own silent ones. And I know the cause of hers. They are like mine— the Games.

But we can't share in this.

Whatever we had is long gone. Whatever connection, even if it was forced on us, is broken. And I'm afraid it's beyond any repair.

I help package up a large plate of cookies for Prim to take home, trusting her to hand out the rest that we've placed into small packages to people in the District. I want to ask her about why she came, to find out what brought her over here. But, if anything about me is reliable, it's the fact that I can't find the courage to do so.

I do, however, tell her that she can come over at any time to bake with me. Prim is eager to take me up on the offer, and somehow I find myself with a standing date for cooking lessons on Saturdays. She has an added bounce in her step as she crosses the short distance in between our houses. As much as I want to stay outside, to catch a glimpse of Katniss, I don't. Instead, I quickly close the door behind me to ponder the idea of painting as a talent.

It seems too person, something that I've always done in the quite and silence of my own room. My father was the one to give me a real sketch pad a few years prior, but I've made sure to save the pages of that for more than just mindless doodles. I've only used a few dozen pages, and each one has been a gift for one person or another.

But wasn't winning the Games about enjoying the new found money? The new found freedom that comes with it? If I had to pick something else to do in my free time, it would be sketching. Or painting. That is something that I've always been interested in. Why shouldn't I do it?

But the whole idea makes me nervous, too. Because what I paint will be shown to the world. The talents need to be something you can show off, something that can be appreciated. What if my paintings aren't good enough? Or what if they are just too much for people to see? The fear of reject has always held me back, because I'm afraid to lose what was never mine.

That thought rips a hole in my gut.

Katniss is the perfect example. I was never able to approach her after the bread. Hell, I wasn't able to before it, either. I watched her deteriorate after her father died and did nothing, because my own feelings stopped me. I knew she was suffering, that she had so little to eat, but I was helpless. And young. And I've always been afraid to say the wrong thing, or have something taken the wrong way. So I threw the bread that day instead of giving it to her.

Like she was the pig my mother always claimed her to be.

I should have given it to her.

This is my chance to really put everything on the line. And it's not about Katniss. And it's not about the Capitol. It's about me. It's about finding a way to deal with everything that's happened. An outlet for everything that I've been numbed against with the medication. Maybe this is the first step to really heal.

The kind of paints that I want and need aren't available in the District. The paint we do have is cheap, thinned down to go farther. And it's exterior paint, which doesn't build or mix well. It doesn't take me long to call Portia, to run the idea by her before she's promised to take care of it.

It's easy to settle into one of the chairs by the fireplace with my old sketch book in hand. Because I'm almost desperate to put something on paper, to see if its worth the time. The music is still playing in the background, soft and delicate.

It has to be hours later when I finally pull myself out of the chair. I've made a dozen rough sketches, unable to really pick on one to be more detailed with. I've got so many thoughts running through my mind that it's really impossible to pick just one. The side of my dominate hand, the left one, is covered in smudged lead.

I have to stand up and stretch, my muscles aching from the slumped over position I'd spent most of the afternoon in. The clock on the mantel says it's well past seven. I settle for day old toasted bread and expensive peanut butter for dinner, my mind wandering to my plans for tomorrow. Portia said that she'd put the stuff on the next train. I'm almost anxious for what she'll think important. And I'm even more excited for the possibility that painting brings.

A distraction.


	6. Chapter 6

Beyond Repair

By: Her Voice

 _There's an odd combination of cold and warm that flows through my veins. I don't know what time it is, nor am I sure where I am at first. It isn't until I fully wake up that I hear the down pour of rain. The darkness of the cave has a dampness with it. I don't know what wakes me up, but I know that I don't feel as weak as I did when I slept._

 _By sleeping syrup._

 _Katniss._

 _I struggle to sit up, but realize that it's not as hard as it has been earlier. The lead that was my entire body has lifted. I have a little strength left in my arms to push myself up, at least. I don't feel as warm either, the telltale shiver gone from my body._

 _She must have gone to the banquet at the cornucopia._

 _"_ _Katniss?" My head swivels around frantically, hoping to catch a sign that she is alright._

 _Her body is against the far wall, the chest movement slow. Irregular. My body is weak, but I am able to crawl to her side by the sheer need to protect her. There is blood. A lot of blood. I don't know what caused it, having been asleep for the whole thing. My heart sinks, only thinking the worse. No, she can't be dead. No._

 _No._

 _I try to think back on what little medical knowledge I have. I can't tell where she is bleeding from. It's not all from the cut on her forehead. I know I have to find the bleeding, to stop it, but my arms are shaking so badly that it is all I can do to pull her to me. I might not be a healer, but I've seen death. And I know the smell. It is close. I can't save her._

 _I gather her into my arms, and she coughs. Brushing her hair back, I kiss her forehead. I try to stop the tears, but they are impossible to control at this point."You shouldn't have gone, Katniss."_

 _Her smile is weak, pain written across her face. She barely says, "I know." Her grey eyes are clouded over, worse than any fever I'd seen. Even with her dark complexion, she was pale. "It was worth it." She breaks into a pathetic fit of coughing and it suddenly gets hard for her to breath. I don't know what happened, but I know that it won't be long now._

 _"_ _I can't do this without you." I tell her softly, burying my face into her shoulder. I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the audience. The girl I have loved for most of my life is going to die and there is nothing I can do about it._

 _She smiles again, "You have to." Her voice is weak. She should be saving her energy, focusing on breathing. I tell her that, and she smiles at me. Breathing becomes painful for me, too._

 _This time, I care about the cameras. I look up to the room of the ceiling, hoping that someone is watching. "DO SOMETHING, HAYMITCH!" I scream, knowing that it would be her last hope. He could get a sponsors. They could send a medical kit. I could make it work, could keep her alive. Couldn't I? If I just had the tools. And the training. If I had just paid attention to that station during the training…_

 _"_ _Shhh, shhhh." She says to me, and I can't stop the tears that fall. I know her breathing is slowing down, that this is the last moment. I can't do anything. I can't save her. That was my one goal, to bring her home. And now, she'll be in a pine box. "You saved me, Peeta. A life for a life. If I have to die, I'm glad it's for you."_

 _I shake my head, refusing to believe that this it. "Katniss Everdeen, I've loved you my whole life. I…." I pull my head back, to search her eyes. But they've rolled back. And she's not breathing. I hold my breath, wondering if I will follow her into the beyond. I don't want to hear what's coming._

 _The cannon fire is deafening as it turns into screams._

I don't know what wakes me, but my sheets are soaked with sweat. I am in my room, the fall breeze through the window cooling me to the point that I am shivering. It takes me a moment to sit up in bed, muscles frozen in terror. I wish that I had put my leg closer to the bed. I want to walk this off, to think about something other than the terrifying dream.

Was it a dream?

I can't shake the image of a bloody and dead Katniss from my mind.

A scream from across the street cuts through the silence. It's one I'm painfully familiar with, hearing them nightly. It makes me uneasy, but it calms me, too. Because I know she's not dead. We've both won the Games. We are home in District Twelve. It's almost like a game I play each night, reminding myself of the truth beneath the haze of sleep. I should not be comforted by her obvious distress. It bothers me as much as it should.

I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms, to protect her like I tried to do in the cave. I wish that things were different.

But they aren't.

I'm still in love with her.

And the feelings that were shared in the Games were a lie.

At least, to her they were.

The clock next to my bed ticks softly, each second reminding me that it's too early to be awake. But my heart is still racing, and even if I tried, I know I won't be able to go back to sleep. Pulling on an old shirt, I quickly slip my leg back on and pad barefoot across the hall, into the empty bedroom-turned-studio.

Portia spared no expense when she sent me painting supplies. Several easels are spread out across the room. I've installed a special cabinet for my paints, all arranged by type of paint, and within those groups by colors. I've spent hours playing with tiny amounts of color, mixing and adding more to see how the pigments blend. It's been fascinating— food color isn't exactly the same.

The activity seems wasteful, something I'm not used to. I keep the colors I've created in small pots, ready to use them should I find a need.

I've got canvas of all sizes stacked up throughout the room, most of them are blank. I'm too nervous to really explore what I can do. I fill sketch books instead, trusting the familiar feel of the charcoal pencil in my fingers.

I could draw, but tonight I'm restless for more.

I pull out a small canvas, setting it on an easel. I don't know what to paint. The dream haunts me. The way it could have happened run endlessly through my mind. I see Clove cutting her as creatively as she can, slicing off body parts as torture. I see Thresh beating her head in. I see Cato running a sword through her abdomen. I see her dying in hundreds of different ways, the worse by my own hand.

My hands work where my brain can't.

Before I know it, I'm painting the scene as it really happened. The cave comes to life and I find myself lost in the creation of colors. I refrain from showing it as I saw it from a fevered haze. Instead, I paint it was after the fact, once it broke. It's amazing, watching as it appears on canvas. The only light source comes from the opening, shadows dancing across the floor. There is very little contrast to the painting.

I'm not sure what I'm doing. And I have no idea where this is coming from, but suddenly, the scene is there. Both in my mind and on the canvas, the nightmare is debunked. She didn't die, even thought she was injured. Katniss is very much alive. The sun is beginning to rise and it's impossible to miss the loud slamming of the door across the street. I can't stop myself from moving to the window, to watch her stalk off into the woods.

I have found my solace, and it would seem like she has hers as well.

I turn back to the canvas, surprised as to how quickly I've brought this scene to life. And for my first painting, it's not bad. It's dark, but so was the cave. Katniss is bent over me, brushing my hair back as she leans in to kiss me. It's a moment that felt incredibly real, and it's one of the few moments that makes me wonder how much of it was an act.

Because it felt like she cared.

I don't want to focus on the painting. It did what it needed to— helped calm my mind after the nightmare. But now, it's just bringing into focus everything that's been plaguing my life since returning. What was real, what wasn't. A different distraction is what I need.

I fall into this pattern. My nightmares wake me violently and I paint the truth onto canvas. Some of the scenes are ones I've only ever seen on television. I paint Rue's burial, Katniss's lips parted in song. I paint the violent fight with Cato, the edges of the canvas shiny from the tracker jacker venom. Katniss finding me by the river. The feast in the cave. The berries in our hands. Rue taking flight though trees. The view of Katniss in the trees. This is the closest I've been to her in months.

We see each other in passing. And a few cordial words are spoken. But it's very little. She avoids me at all costs. And she's gone almost as quickly as she came.

Ren says I'm being a coward, that I need to just step up and speak with her. Rye thinks that I should let her go, but that's been his opinion our whole lives. But I can't form an opinion yet. I refuse to come to terms with things. So I paint, and hope that I'll find answers in the canvas and colors.

When I can't find them there, I search for them in the kitchen. I spend more time baking. I find ways to creatively add protein supplements to the breads I make, knowing that for a lot of people this could be the only meal they get in a day. I can't go into the Seam or the Hob, so Prim has become my accomplice. I make the bread, she delivers it to those in need. She sends it home with those who come looking for healing. And it helps to keep more people alive. Between the parcels sent by the Capitol and the bread I make, fewer kids are starving.

I'm doing my part to keep it together.

Baking and painting. Sleeping and nightmares. It's a cycle that is only broken by the occasional phone call from Portia or Effie. I spend hours on the phone talking with my stylist. We talk about my painting and the upcoming tour. Portia doesn't know as much on that as Effie does, but even my escort is keeping things hush-hush.

The trip gets closer, and the nightmares are more prevalent and vivid. My paintings take a far darker turn, focusing on the last hours of the Games. I paint the mutts with their bright eyes, and Katniss facing off with Cato. I paint Katniss, pounding on the doors of the hover craft, screaming out my name. I paint the facts, the things that I have to prove right after the lies of my nightmares.

I don't paint standing up anymore— the pressure on my stump is too much. But I can last longer on the appendage than before. The use of creams and pain relievers sent from Effie help with that.

The days until the tour mean less sleep for everyone in the Victor's Village.

Katniss disappears into the woods as early as she can. She hunts all hours of the day, not at all scared of the consequences of being out. Everything she kills goes to the Hob, to the Seam where it is needed most. Haymitch drinks to the point where I'm worried he will die of poisoning, and I can't say that I blame him anymore. It numbs him, in a way I wish I could find. And I bake to no real end.

Our ways might border on psychotic, but it's all we can do.

The day the tour is supposed to start begins early for us all, except Haymitch who was up all night drinking. I'm up an hour before Katniss, finalizing the paintings I'm going to be bringing with me. There are a few that aren't quite finished, but they are ones I'm saving for her, when she's ready to be friends again. Ones painted from my perspective, from childhood to now. My personal favorite (of the ones that don't involve Katniss) is one of Prim, covered in flour, rolling out dough for cinnamon rolls. The view is so close, you can count the freckles that dust her nose with the flour that's stuck in her lashes. Her hand is in motion, ready to toss a handful of flour at the person looking back at her. Even though her eyes are blue, they've got hints of the Seam gray in them, and I've made sure that you can see where she comes from. A giggle bubbles from her lips and I'm sure that if the room is silent enough, you can hear the bells of her laughter.

Prim's youthfulness was easy to paint into the canvas, and I can't say I'm surprised with how much I love the painting. My time spent with the youngest Everdeen breaks up the monotony of the days. And I feel like I can at least pass on knowledge that will help her, keep her alive. It's not hunting, something Katniss would no doubt refuse to teach Prim (and something I'm sure she could never do). But it's just as life giving. It brings me calm, if only once a week. We make cookies and breads, rolls and pastries. And when she tells me about her own talent with drawing, I show her how to decorate. She doesn't like to show anyone her work, so I usually end up keeping the sweets she's frosted. But, like everything else, it seems her talents are endless.

I'm not looking forward to leaving and by the way Katniss has left her house, she isn't either. Because for the next few weeks, we are going to have to bring back the 'romance' that saved our lives in the Arena. It's the last thing either of us want to do, but we have no choice.

I won't be able to focus on anything complicated this morning, so I stick to a simple white bread recipe that I can make in my sleep. It's what we usually sell out of first. The bread is a staple in the District, so dozens of loaves are made each day. And if any is left over, it goes towards bread pudding or other desserts where you won't notice the different. It's a bread I rarely ate as a child. More often, we were left with the rye bread, or the dense raisin bread that few people had a taste for. Making this almost pulls me back to the day of the Reaping, which started off the very same way. But now, I have the luxury of playing with recipes. I add some honey and sugar to sweeten it, simply because I think it will taste good. It's in the process of rising on the windowsill when a loud knock on the door breaks the silence

Not thinking twice, I move to the front door. So engrossed in my cooking, I forgot for a moment that people were going to come to my house and I throw the door open without a care. The people stare at me, and I back at them. They are obviously from the Capitol, even if they are dressed far more simply than I would expect. The woman in front smiles at me, and I can't help the flush in my cheeks, embarrassed by how I must look. I wipe my hands nervously on the white apron, stepping back to invite them in. They have cameras, and I am sure they are hear to film for the Tour.

"Peeta? My name is Cressida. My crew and I are here to do some filming?" The woman looks to be in her late twenties, but I've learned that you can't trust looks with the Capitol's ability to alter bodies. Her hand shoots out to take mine, a flash of green vines peaking out from the slim blue leather jacket she wears. I can see it crawling up her neck, spiraling across her bald head. She is pretty, the lack of hair not at all off-putting. I give her a smile and invite them into the house.

I've never had company before, at least, not like this. My mother came over once, asked me if I was still in love 'with that Everdeen girl' and then left when the answer wasn't what she wanted to hear. My father stops by when my mother is out, but he never stays for long. This is the first time that it's not family. The house isn't as bad as it was before I stopped taking the medication, but it's not as nice as I would like it to look.

My face is flushed as I invite them into the kitchen.

Luckily, Cressida is friendly. She's full of questions, most having to do with how she plans on filming me. I serve them fresh cinnamon rolls and coffee, mostly listening as the chatter while I clean. I answer their questions, keeping my responses short. I'm not quite in the mood for them yet. When she suggests that I go upstairs to get ready while they set up the initial shots, I have no problem leaving these strangers in my house to do what they need to.

My prep team will be here soon, so I don't bother with shaving. A quick shower is all I need right now. She won't be filming me, just my paintings with me speaking off to the side. I'll just talk about them as we go. Effie made a few cue cards for me to use, but I know I won't need them.

I pull on a simple blue long sleeved shirt and soft tan corduroys. I had the sense to put my bread in the oven before I showered, the timer buzzing loudly focusing me back on my task at hand. The loaves, set on top of the oven, will need to cool before they can be given out.

In the short time I've been gone, they've pulled all of the painting I didn't have covered out into the light. And arranged them in chronological order, from the beginning of the Games to the end. Because those are the only ones I'm willing to share with the public— the ones they already saw. I spend the next 45 minutes initially ready from little cards Effie must have written. But Cressida pulled them out of my hands almost immediately so that I can freely talk about them.

Her questions are pointed, getting down to the root of the painting. But she respects my feelings and allows for some open ended speaking as well. As uncomfortable as I am about this, she has made it as easy as possible.

There isn't much more for me to do, and I've got to make sure that Haymitch is up and fed before the prep teams arrive. Cressida sends me on my way while she and her crew load up the paintings, filming the whole process.

Two loaves of bread wrapped in parchment paper for my mentor— might be a different loaf each time, but it's always in twos. If he's going to drink, then I can at least make sure he's got food to help soak it up.

I pull on my soft leather coat, knowing it will be enough for the brief trek across the way to his house. The door is already open and I can hear voices coming from inside. It must be Katniss— the only other person who cares about Haymitch besides me.

"— you should have asked Peeta." She says, her voice having the usual bite she saves only for Haymitch.

"Asked me what?" I approach the two, my eyes placed firmly on a very soaked Haymitch. I'm not ready to look at her, not yet. In a few hours, I'll have to be the loving man I long to be with her. And in return, she will be the adoring girl she needs to be. But not the one I want her to be. And I know I'm not the one she wants either. I steel myself for the look I know is coming. The look of hate, of anger. But this time, there is something else in her eyes, and it's something I can't say that I can place. I don't look at her for long, spotting the knife in Haymitch's hand. I put my hand out for it, which he readily gives.

"Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia."

I can't help but smile softly at him, grabbing the partial bottle of white liquor to dose the knife with. It will clean off anything that might ruin the bread. I wipe it clean and cut through the bread. It's still warm. I give the dense, crusty heel to Haymitch. And I finally look up at her, I finally meet her eyes.

"Would you like a piece?" It felt thick in my throat, having to swallow once more to really get the sensation of bitterness down.

"No, I ate at the Hob, but thank you." It's the first words she's spoken to me in weeks. I wish I could say more than the stiff 'you're welcome', but that's all that I have. There is more that I want to say. More than I should say. But I don't. I can't. I'm still angry, and my mind knows it.

Haymitch has managed to pull off the top layer of his wet outfit before he speaks again. "Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime." I take a seat at his table, my head hanging in dread. I don't say anything because I know I don't need to. He's the mentor and he's right— we can't be like this once the cameras are here.

Katniss says something, I don't hear what, and uses the open window as he exit. I can't help but laugh a little bitterly, "Any advice?" I ask him, running a hand through my hair before looking at him. Honestly, I have no clue on where to start, on what to do. On how not to take this whole thing personal.

He takes another bite of bread. "Listen kid, you can't keep blaming her for everything. It's not her fault— it's theirs." He waves aimlessly around the room, not pointing out one thing or another. I know what he means— it's the Capitol's fault. "Find a way. Do what you have to do. But loving that girl comes naturally for you, and lord only knows why. I don't think it has anything to do with her sparkling personality. Quit fighting it while the cameras are around." He grabs the half eaten loaf of bread and vanishes into his house, probably to clean up.

I cut up the remaining loaf, buttering a few pieces for Haymitch before I leave, putting it next to a cup of coffee.

He's right.

If Katniss is good at anything, it's surviving. And somehow, she knew what Haymitch wanted. And she played the Game. If things had been different, I wouldn't have even been home. There would have been no rule change. I would have died from blood poisoning and Katniss would have gone home the Victor. She saved me because….

Why did she?

I ask myself that question the moment I walk into the kitchen of my house. I barely have time to think about it before I'm bombarded by my prep team. Their talkativeness leaves the thought on the back burner. It would be rude to ignore them, so I join the conversation with vigor.

But in the back of my mind, it nags me.

Why did she?


End file.
